by Meg Gardiner
‘‘He just got in from the Caribbean; he only sees her because she’s going to produce an album for him.’’
Stop. Reset. ‘‘Sinsa is a record producer?’’
‘‘Shaun’s her first big artist. She sort of took pity on him after the Rock House thing. Ricky felt bad about mentioning the sweating, but what can you do? It came out of his mouth and he couldn’t put it back.’’
‘‘So this recording project is her way of making it up to him?’’ I said.
‘‘No, but it’ll create a buzz. An irony kind of thing. And Sin needs a buzz, something to put her own stamp on things. It’s tough for her.’’
Brian faked ignorance. ‘‘Because she’s so young?’’
‘‘Mainly ’cause of her folks. The Hollywood dudes hear ‘Jimson’ and think showbiz brat, riding her dad’s coattails.’’
Brian nodded. ‘‘Like Frank Sinatra Junior. Or Ringo’s kid.’’
‘‘Right. Coming along behind a star, you have to climb out from under their footprint.’’
‘‘How many artists has she produced?’’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘‘Five or ten. Demos, not whole albums. I mean, she doesn’t run a record company. She takes the demos to the A and R people to get her artists signed.’’
‘‘And is she getting her artists signed to record deals?’’
‘‘It takes time. You have to know who to know.’’
I nodded. ‘‘Who’s putting up the money for Shaun’s record project?’’
He shrugged.
‘‘Me?’’
He pulled the guitar against him, as though trying to hide behind it.
‘‘Excuse me, I mean is Evan Delaney putting up the money? You know, the man who opened a fraudulent checking account at Allied Pacific Bank?’’
He shook his head.
‘‘The person who ripped off some lowlifes from a group called Avalon, and told them I had the money ready to pay back?’’
‘‘I don’t know what you’re—’’
‘‘Don’t tell me you went to such trouble on Shaun’s behalf.’’
He didn’t say anything.
‘‘Did Sinsa ask you nicely? Explain it all, how she needed extra money, some safe way of getting cash?’’ I walked toward him. ‘‘The thing is, I think that all of this ties in somehow to Brittany’s death.’’
He pressed his lips together, shaking his head.
‘‘A police lieutenant downtown thought Brittany might be part of a ring of thieves. Looks like that involves you and Miss Jimson.’’
He kept shaking his head.
I stopped. ‘‘Hold it. Sinsa’s not producing an album for the Mings, is she?’’
Patsy walked in, a Marlboro in her hand. ‘‘Patrick? I heard you talking about that poor girl.’’ She looked at Brian. ‘‘Patrick’s been so upset.’’
P.J. stood up. ‘‘Evan, let’s go outside.’’
‘‘Don’t you want dessert?’’ Patsy said.
P.J. headed for the front door. As we went along behind him, Brian nodded at all the family photos and leaned close to my ear. ‘‘No question who’s the favored son, is there?’’
I shushed him.
‘‘It’s like Jesse barely exists. Are they ashamed of him?’’
Outside, P.J. tucked his hands into his armpits and paced in a circle on the driveway.
‘‘Jesse put you up to this, didn’t he?’’ he said.
‘‘Do you have cotton stuffed in your skull? This is not about Jesse.’’
‘‘I’m sorry Shaun got into it with him, but don’t let that color what you think. You have this thing all wrong.’’
‘‘Then tell me how to get it right.’’
‘‘Sin’s working seriously hard on this. Songwriter-producer, it’s a big thing to tackle. Hiring musicians, writing songs, booking studio time, that stuff.’’
Like a drip from a faucet, repetitive and insistent, an idea was forming about Sinsa’s new production company. It was producing nothing but promises, and it was exacting them at a high price. And instead of working on record deals, she was spending the money on herself, and on Sweaty Shaun.
Wait. Musicians. ‘‘Is she hiring musicians to play on Shaun’s album?’’
He nodded, looking walleyed with love. ‘‘Putting it together. Don’t say anything, but looks like I’ll be playing lead guitar.’’
I somehow kept my face from spasming. ‘‘Wow.’’
‘‘It’s going to be great. Her stuff’s amazing.’’
He was still nodding, with all the oblivious eagerness of the puppy, when the unmarked sheriff’s car pulled up and detectives Zelinski and Rodriguez stepped out.
Rodriguez strode up the driveway. ‘‘Patrick John Blackburn?’’
P.J. didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He had the frozen-chipmunk look again. Rodriguez walked toward him.
‘‘We’d like to ask you some questions,’’ she said.
He bolted.
He ran for the porch, aiming to get in the house, and he was fast. But the detectives were faster. They caught him in the entryway, and ten seconds later they had him handcuffed and were leading him to their car. The noise brought the dinner party to the door.
Patsy put a hand to her chest. ‘‘Oh, my God.’’
Rodriguez was giving him the Miranda warning, telling him he could have an attorney present during questioning. ‘‘Do you understand?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’ He walked to their car, head down, hair hanging over his eyes. ‘‘Evan’s my attorney. Can she come to the jail with me?’’
My face went numb. ‘‘P.J., I can’t be your lawyer.’’
Patsy was wringing her hands. Behind her in the doorway Deedee and Chuck and David and Caroline jostled for staring space.
Keith pushed through the crowd. ‘‘What’s this all about?’’
P.J. tossed his hair out of his eyes. ‘‘Evan, you said. Please—I want you present during questioning.’’ He looked at the detectives. ‘‘Let her come with me.’’
Dammit. ‘‘No, P.J.’’
Zelinski let go of P.J.’s arm and came toward me. ‘‘But I insist.’’
‘‘Excuse me?’’
‘‘You’re coming to the station with us for questioning.’’
If there’s any worse impulse than running from the cops, it’s challenging them. But that’s what Brian did, straight in Zelinski’s face.
‘‘You can’t take my sister in.’’
‘‘Bri, don’t,’’ I said.
His fuse was lit. ‘‘On what charge, Deputy Dawg?’’
I jumped between him and Zelinski. But outrage and momentum did the rest. Brian knocked into me. My elbow ended up in Zelinski’s ribs. And boom, I found my hands on the hood of my car, my feet spread, and Zelinski patting me down.
He brought out the cuffs. ‘‘You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer.’’
Brian spread his arms. ‘‘You can’t do this. Get your hands off of her.’’
‘‘Bri, stop.’’ I looked at him. ‘‘Call Jesse.’’
Zelinski snapped on the cuffs and led me toward the car. Brian raked his hands through his hair, spun, and kicked the wheel well of my car. Keith Blackburn stood impotently on the driveway. Patsy clutched her sweater.
‘‘You heard her,’’ she said. ‘‘Call Jesse. He’ll know what to do. Call Jesse.’’
13
At the county jail, Zelinski unlocked the handcuffs and gave them my name. ‘‘She’s an attorney.’’ The shine on his face said, Bagged one. ‘‘Her client’s coming in with Lily.’’
‘‘He’s not my client,’’ I said.
The booking officer was happy to show me in. ‘‘This way, Counselor.’’
He took my mug shot, and my fingerprints, and my shoelaces, and stuck me in a holding cell. With the proud winner of a knife fight. She weighed in at two-twenty and had Marie and Nolinda tattooed on her biceps, which could have been either her name or a list of defeated op
ponents. Her wrists were as thick as Murphy Ming’s; the two of them would have made good dance partners. I kept my back against the wall for an hour, until a jailer unlocked the door and led me out for questioning.
The county sheriff’s office was next door to the jail. The detectives were waiting in an interview room. Zelinski uncuffed my hands. Rodriguez gestured me to a plastic chair.
‘‘You and your brother always get so hot?’’ she said.
‘‘No. May I apologize on his behalf?’’ Assaulting an officer. It was ludicrous and they knew it. ‘‘I didn’t intend to knock into Detective Zelinski.’’
Zelinski leaned against the wall in the corner, snickering. I figured I had one more sentence, max, before my eyes glowed red and my lizard tongue shot across the table and gored them both. I saved my words.
‘‘What went wrong?’’ Rodriguez said. ‘‘Did Brittany get greedy?’’
‘‘I don’t know what you mean.’’
She opened a file folder. ‘‘Don’t know if you’ve checked, but your credit report’s been updated. More bills have come in. Somebody went on a spree a couple of weeks back.’’ She ran her fingers down the page. ‘‘On Rodeo Drive, no less. Prada, Hugo Boss, Manolo Blahnik . . . Day Spa at someplace called the Retreat. Goodness, Gary, did you know you can blow a grand on aromatherapeutic massage and a honey-cucumber body scrub?’’
‘‘Go on, tell me what the total bill was,’’ I said.
‘‘Just under twelve thousand.’’
A headache started behind my right eye.
‘‘Did Brittany have a habit of spending too much?’’ she said.
‘‘I didn’t know Brittany Gaines. I never met her. I never spoke to her. The only time I ever saw her was at the morgue.’’
Zelinski walked to the table. ‘‘That’s funny. Her roommate says you came by their apartment twice in the space of a day.’’
‘‘I did. The first time, I was—’’
‘‘And the second time you became violent with a visitor.’’
‘‘Shaun Kutner? Sweaty Shaun? That’s baloney.’’
‘‘She describes an altercation between you, Mr. Kutner, and Jesse Blackburn. Brittany’s father had to break it up. Is that correct?’’
‘‘That is incorrect.’’
Zelinski ran his fingers alongside his nose. ‘‘Ted Gaines didn’t have to wade in and stop your brawl?’’
‘‘I wasn’t brawling. Shaun attacked Jesse without provocation. He had him on the ground.’’
He hesitated, assessing that. ‘‘Jesse may have been helpless, but you certainly weren’t. Mr. Kutner has a torn cruciate ligament in his knee.’’
Don’t cheer. Applause, victory yells, spiking an imaginary football would not be taken well. I laid my hands flat on the table.
‘‘Did you kill Brittany Gaines?’’ Rodriguez said.
The headache leaped on me. The lights felt sharp and had a buzz.
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Did you set it up with P. J. Blackburn?’’
‘‘No.’’
Zelinski sat down. ‘‘Here’s how it lays out. You set yourself up as the victim of an identity theft. Created your own mirror image.’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘You had good cover because your wallet was stolen last summer, but things got out of hand. P.J. gave extra credit cards to his girlfriend, or she had a shopping addiction that slipped the leash. Brittany was spending too much, and maybe threatening to turn you and P.J. in if you reined her back. You two killed her and threw her body off the balcony into the water.’’
‘‘No.’’
Zelinski leaned his elbows on the table. ‘‘You tried to cover it by calling nine-one-one and reporting an accident. You knew nobody would find the body in the storm. It made you look like the good guy.’’
‘‘No.’’
Rodriguez smoothed her cowlick down. ‘‘How much do you know about guitars?’’
My mouth was still open.
‘‘Did you know each string is a different weight? The bottom E string, I found out today, is the heaviest.’’
She turned to a new page in the folder. I saw a photo of Brittany’s body. Close-up on the wire that had sawed through her throat. I turned my head away.
‘‘We found P. J. Blackburn’s guitar on the beach below the Del Playa house. A Fender Stratocaster. The neck was broken and the strings sprung. The bottom E string was missing.’’
She tossed the morgue photo across the table.
‘‘That’s it. Willie Johnson brand, custom gauge, nickel-wound guitar string. It’s what garroted her.’’
I tried to get away from the photo by shoving my seat back, but the chair was bolted to the floor. My head was splitting.
‘‘Remember what I mentioned,’’ Rodriguez said. ‘‘Covering your tracks on the fly leaves a messy trail.’’
‘‘You have it wrong,’’ I said.
Zelinski leaned toward me. ‘‘You’re going away.’’
There was a rap on the door. A deputy stuck his head in.
‘‘Her attorney’s here.’’
All I wanted was to grab Jesse’s hand and let him take the pilot’s seat. But it was Lavonne Marks who walked into the room.
‘‘Has Ms. Delaney been charged?’’ she said.
‘‘Assaulting an officer,’’ Zelinski said.
‘‘Don’t play games, Detective.’’ She looked at Rodriguez. ‘‘Anything else?’’
‘‘That’s under advisement.’’
‘‘In other words, no.’’
‘‘As of the present, she isn’t being charged. But she’s a material witness, and a suspect in the death of Brittany Gaines.’’
‘‘This is rank speculation. You don’t have probable cause. It’s time to cut her loose.’’
And that, when it came down to brass tacks, was that.
Lavonne gestured to me. ‘‘Come on, Evan.’’
Zelinski stood up. ‘‘She’ll have to make bail on the assault charge.’’
‘‘You’re really going to do this? Fine.’’ She put a hand on my back. ‘‘It won’t be long.’’
I said, ‘‘I’d like to speak privately to Ms. Marks.’’
Rodriguez gathered her things. ‘‘As long as you’d like.’’ She and Zelinski left.
‘‘Thank you.’’ I leaned on the table, massaging my eye. ‘‘Where’s Jesse?’’
‘‘Arranging your bond. We suspected Zelinski might play hardball over the assault charge. He has that whiff of authoritarian glee about him.’’
‘‘They want to charge me with murder,’’ I said.
‘‘They’re fishing.’’
‘‘Yeah, with a harpoon gun.’’
She put her hand on my arm. ‘‘Hang tight. It will be a few hours before you make bail. Is there anything I can do for you?’’
I thought about returning to the holding cell, and almost asked her to call Vegas and put a hundred bucks on my cellmate in her next knife fight. But no.
‘‘Want a puppy?’’ I said.
The cell door slid open at eleven p.m. Big Knifey was snoring in the corner. In the lobby I was surprised to see Marc Dupree waiting with Jesse. I managed a weak smile, feeling enervated and grateful. Marc patted me on the shoulder. I crossed the lobby to Jesse.
‘‘You’re my hero.’’ I took his face in my hands and kissed him.
He brushed a lock of hair off my forehead. ‘‘Brian’s groveling. Insists he’ll pay me back for the bondsman’s premium in the morning.’’
‘‘He ought to.’’
‘‘This isn’t on Brian, or on you, Ev. It was Zelinski’s call. He owns this.’’
‘‘I’ll accept that.’’ I bent and kissed him again. ‘‘Thank you.’’
The door opened with a gust of wind, and in walked Jesse’s parents. Strutting beside them was a man who had the flash of a cheap sports car, and a blond haircut that screamed suave. They angled toward the front desk.
&nb
sp; Patsy said, ‘‘Well, isn’t this a picture?’’
Jesse’s shoulders sagged. I felt the headache spiking into me.
The blond lifted his chin in greeting. Under the fluorescent lights, his fake tan was the color of pumpkin pie.
‘‘Skip,’’ Jesse said.
He mock-saluted. ‘‘Jester. Don’t worry, amigo, I’ve got this covered.’’
Jesse watched him walk past. ‘‘Go on home, Ev. I’ve got work to do here.’’
I hesitated for a second, and squeezed his hand. Marc held the door for me. As it swung shut I heard Jesse saying, ‘‘Mom, you hired Skip Hinkel to represent P.J.?’’
‘‘You didn’t give us much choice, did you?’’ Patsy said.
I turned to go back in. Skip Hinkel was the kind of lawyer who gives lawyers a bad name. Devious, bullying, and effective. Seeing him here was like having a pint of motor oil poured down my throat. But Marc set his hand against the middle of my back and nudged me toward his truck.
‘‘Know when to retreat. You can’t win this dogfight,’’ he said.
‘‘Afraid I’m one of the bones of contention.’’
‘‘You’ve been chewed up enough for one night. Jesse’s going to have to hold his own.’’
14
The next morning, the only thing that made me happy was seeing that my name was not in the paper. Yet. I poured myself a cup of coffee and phoned Jesse.
‘‘P.J.’s out,’’ he said.
‘‘They didn’t charge him?’’
‘‘For Brittany, no. For possession of marijuana and eight hundred bucks in unpaid traffic tickets, yes.’’
‘‘No wonder he bolted.’’ I stirred my coffee. ‘‘What’s the situation with P.J.’s legal representation?’’
‘‘You mean Skip the Wonder Lawyer? They’re thinking of adopting him.’’
Despite my mood, I had a full day of work to do. I walked Ollie around the yard, fed him and fluffed his blanket, and went over to the law library down at the courthouse. I came home at lunch and took the puppy out again, and went back downtown. Piece of cake, did I say? When will I learn not to boast?
When I finished at the courthouse in the late afternoon, I hiked down the spiral staircase and out into the sunken garden. The air felt crisp. The walls of the courthouse towered white against the blue sky. My cell phone rang as soon as I switched it on. It was Ted Gaines.